


Candy Cane Kisses

by Elasmosaurus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Ferdinand von Aegir, Face-Sitting, Fantasizing, Horsegirl thighs are sexy™️, Hubert take a cold shower™️, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Pole Dancing, Pole!Ferdie, Rimming, Top Hubert von Vestra, so much thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29011140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elasmosaurus/pseuds/Elasmosaurus
Summary: Usually, Hubert wouldn’t be caught dead in this type of establishment, but he’ll do anything to keep his lady happy. Especially this close to her special day. He’d devoted the last decade of his life to achieving her dreams, this was just another small sacrifice to make to aid her in realising another one.If he’d known at the time it would lead to him spending a Friday night in December in a strip club, he might have…no, it wouldn’t have changed anything.Although why they are in amalestrip club, Hubert has no idea.AKA: Pole dancer Ferdie has lived rent free in my brain so now you and Hubert can thirst over him too. #Sorrynotsorry
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	Candy Cane Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JotaroVapes (radioaction)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioaction/gifts).



> So one day, in the Ferdibert discord server, JotaroVapes posted this drawing of [Pole Dancer Ferdinand.](https://twitter.com/thorned_visage/status/1344877508076990467) He moved into my head and has lived there rent free ever since. I had to write this to get him to move out.
> 
> I hope I did him justice! This is just a solid 7k of Hubert thirsting for Ferdie I don't know what else to tell you. It gets very horny I apologise profusely.
> 
> This is a choose your own background ships adventure! Edie's getting married! Who to? You decide!
> 
> Unbeta'd because if I let this be looked over it would miraculously grow an extra 1k words again in the interim so please shout at me if there are any glaring mistakes.
> 
> CWs:  
> Alcohol consumption  
> Top Hubert says he'd consider switching to tap that.  
> Some sweat / scent kink, references to tying Ferdie up  
> There's an implied exes ship for Hubert and an implied present ship for his ex  
> Hubert has never heard Ferdie speak so he doesn't know Ferdie doesn't use contractions

Usually, Hubert wouldn’t be caught dead in this type of establishment, but he’ll do anything to keep his lady happy. Especially this close to her special day. He’d devoted the last decade of his life to achieving her dreams, this was just another small sacrifice to make to aid her in realising another one.

If he’d known at the time it would lead to him spending a Friday night in December in a strip club, he might have…no, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Although why they are in a _male_ strip club, Hubert has no idea.

Unconventional as it is, at least the joint bachelorette party had meant Edelgard and her fiancée could enjoy their celebration with all their friends, and Hubert wouldn’t be torn between looking after his lady and minding his lady’s lady. Hubert had wanted to assist in the planning for the event but was banned, and had to settle for the titbits of information he gleaned from eavesdropping on conversations between the maids of honour.

He’d heard the words “Italian” (the wonderful restaurant they had eaten at after finishing work), “studio” (the art studio where they’d had a still life class and created some fantastic dildo paintings - Dorothea’s idea), and “strip,” which of course meant they were going to a strip club. It was, regrettably, unavoidable, given the circumstances. Hubert had assumed, naturally, that due to the nature of his lady’s upcoming union it would be a club with female dancers they went to but alas, instead they were here watching oil-slicked men gyrate to noise that could not, in good faith, be called music.

Hubert had spent most of the night fidgeting, trying everything except looking up to distract himself from the need to get his phone out so he wasn’t kicked out of the club. He wanted to respond to the Blue Lion Corp. CEO’s email to tell him where he could shove his proposed contract, or to the lazy Group Operations Director at Golden Deer Inc. to make it clear her work ethic would not be tolerated post-merger. The quarterly revenue still had discrepancies that needed resolving, there was the cyber security issue he had yet to address and KPIs needed to be set for the upcoming new year and —

A hand waving in front of his face brings Hubert out of his thoughts. Bernadetta smiles at him encouragingly, while Petra just stares at him. Expectantly. Her face is a little flushed from the rosé she sips at, waiting for him to answer. What had the women been discussing? He’d tuned out when the conversation turned to their sex lives. There were details he does _not_ need to know about his friends, even if they insisted on knowing them about each other. He wracks his brain, trying to remember the current thesis of their chatting, and it comes to him: Hapi’s polyamorous relationship and his lady’s decision to embrace monogamy following her nuptials. But what had they asked him specifically? Luckily, Dorothea saves him from answering.

“Hey! We can all look if we want to. Even Hubie here!” Dorothea reaches over Byleth to put a hand on his knee as she smirks at him.

“She’s right, Hubert. You should relax. Try to enjoy yourself.” Edelgard smiles at him. Hubert sighs, and she laughs. “I’ve changed my mind. Enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”

“As you wish, my lady,” he dutifully responds, trying to smile without it turning into a grimace.

Dorothea pipes up again. They were really capitalising on the change over between acts. When the acts were on stage, the music was turned up too loud to hear over, but during the intermissions, the pop drivel he couldn’t keep up with was turned down enough for the headache brewing behind his eyes to subside somewhat.

“Hubie was clearly born in the wrong century, what with your devotion to your lady and the whole vibe you’ve got going on. I’m sure he’d be _getting_ it in the Victorian era. Sharp cheekbones? Gloomy disposition? Looming aura? That sickly, won’t-survive-the-winter pallor? They’d be lining up for him!”

The women laughed, and Hubert did his best to avoid scowling at her. He knows his looks are an…acquired taste, and his current lack of a sex life was a sore topic. The man he’d been seeing for six months left him for the childhood best friend he’d reassured Hubert he harboured no feelings for on multiple occasions. The victory of saying _‘I told you so’_ had felt hollow under the circumstances and still did two months later.

“Lay off The Bert, Siren,” Hapi scolded, slurping at the sweet pink monstrosity of a cocktail she’d ordered at the bar. It’s unlike Hapi not to join in when an opportunity to tease arises, but he is grateful for her intervention all the same. Dorothea waves her hand to brush the situation off, Constance laughs obnoxiously as always, and the women titter over the next round of cocktails, his love life long forgotten.

The lights in the bar dim until only the bar is faintly lit so the staff can still see. Hubert notices the pole in the middle of the stage is different — instead of a silver metallic colour, it’s white with alternating single and double red stripes winding down, similar to the pattern on a candy cane.

As if this part of the night could get any worse. Hubert had little love for Christmas, but he still didn’t need it ruined forever for him by Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas” giving him flashbacks to watching some young muscular idiot dancing to bankroll his move out of his parent’s basement.

Red lighting comes on, illuminating the stage so the back of a tallish man in a velvet Santa robe can be seen. His long hair is held up in a high ponytail by a large maroon ribbon tied in a bow, and likely an entire can of hair spray or dozens of bobby pins.

The [ music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkhwFBg7lLM) starts,and to Hubert’s surprise it isn’t one of the typical Christmas songs. He doesn’t recognise the upbeat melody, but isn’t left with much time to think about it as the man begins to disrobe in time to the music. At the first beat, he throws the gown open and holds it there, arms outstretched. On the second, he rolls broad, muscled shoulders to shimmy it off. On the third, he lets the garment fall to the floor, bringing his arms to his sides. On the fourth, he keeps his legs perfectly straight while he bends over to pick it up. He slowly rises, then snaps his head in the opposite direction to his arm as he throws the robe to the side, holding the position.

Hubert struggles to process any of this information because the man is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. More beautiful than his ex, the current face and ass of Armani suits. The dancer’s flawless fawn skin has warm, golden undertones and a smattering of freckles cover his shoulders. When the robe goes, Hubert has to concentrate on not making a sound. The maroon lingerie, stockings and long gloves he wears match the bow in the man’s sunset orange hair. The cute bralette, gloves and stockings have a white faux fur trim that contrasts delightfully with his golden skin. The knickers have a frilly yet tasteful white lace trim and leave _very_ little to the imagination. Hubert feels his cheeks heat at the thought of leaving bite marks on the gorgeous curve of that tight ass. And his _thighs._ Hubert can’t help but stare at the bulging muscle, especially when it goes taut as the man demonstrates his flexibility. He has to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry.

 _Goddess_ Hubert would do anything to be behind him at that moment, one hand on the small of his back to hold the dancer in place while he buries himself to the hilt again and again. In his room, or right here in front of everyone, he can’t bring himself to care.

Or to have his head between those thighs, feel the strength of the muscle grip his head as the other man unravels beneath him.

Whatever exercise routine the man does is clearly paying off; he’s covered in lines of hard, roped muscle. Not in an over the top way like Caspar, the body builder, who had muscles on top of his muscles. This man just has clear, sinewy definition. Any fabric that covered up the man, other than to make him decent — or, well, unexposed — should be illegal. Like the robe from earlier, and the stockings Hubert wants to peel off with his teeth, hearing the man gasp as they graze the sensitive skin. At least they leave a thin strip of flesh visible at the very top of his thighs. A thin strip that draws his gaze so strongly he can barely look away. He notices the man isn’t wearing heels like some of the other dancers had. He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Hubert finds himself oddly disheartened there isn’t a ribbon around the man’s hips, fastened in a bow over his ass. He truly looks like a gift, one Hubert desperately wishes to unwrap. To tear off the lingerie like he would wrapping paper to reveal the present hidden beneath. Not that there was much fabric to tear. He could probably just push it aside to sink one slicked finger inside, hear the man’s breathy moans as Hubert prepared him to take what he was given.

The man was moving, and Hubert’s brain had to rush to keep up. The gloves had disappeared but the mesmerising sway of the man’s hips as he took slow, deliberate steps towards the pole more than makes up for it. Especially as he shakes his ass to every _Ra pa pam pam._ Hubert gets his first chance to admire the man’s front. The sight sends sparks down his spine and Hubert hopes his companions are too busy ogling the dancer themselves to notice his sudden change in posture, sitting bolt upright to pay attention.

Hubert decides he’s clearly dead or dreaming; no one can look this perfect. Those abs must be chiselled out of stone. His face is framed by a styled fringe on one side, a wavy lock designed to look like it had worked its way free but that was clearly there deliberately on the other. Honeyed eyes hide behind thick, long lashes the same coppery colour as his hair. So it’s natural then. Hubert begins to feel heat coiling in his gut at the thought of the hair hiding a little lower, behind the lingerie — would it also be the same colour? Or maybe slightly darker? Would he even have any? Aside from the abundance of it cascading from the man’s head, Hubert can’t see even the slightest hint of hair on his body.

Unlike the other dancers, the smile on this man’s face is somewhat innocent. None of the arrogant leer, although it morphs into something more self confident with each step. It complements his strong jawline. Now he’s closer, Hubert can see the lipstick and eyeshadow painted on the dancer’s face, darker reds clearly chosen to complement the outfit. He spots the rouge on the dancer’s cheeks with a twitch of his mouth. A shame the man’s face has clearly been covered in foundation, he’d like to know if the freckles on his shoulders are also sprinkled over those soft cheeks and button nose. Hubert’s eyes flick up and he finds himself making eye contact with the dancer. Hubert exercises extreme self control to avoid impulsively jerking away and instead allows his eyes to focus on how the lighting emphasises the shadows created by the sculpted planes of the man’s body. Every part of him looks firm, including those thighs Hubert is convinced would feel softer than his eider duck down pillows. Hm. On the topic of feathers, would the dancer be ticklish? Would tracing feather light touches at the top of his thighs make the man writhe beneath him, prevented from escaping with restraints?

Goddess, those tree trunks look thick enough to fuck into. And it would be something he hadn’t tried before. Hubert banishes the thought and resultant smirk as quickly as possible, hoping his body hasn’t betrayed him by broadcasting his desires. Dorothea delights in taking every opportunity to remind Hubert that for all the scowls and general blank faces, he’s an open book when it comes to sex because he gets this “cutesy little smattering of dusky rose all over your face, sweetie! And then it spreads to your ears!”

_Light me up put me on top let’s falalalalalalalala_

_Light me up put me on top let’s falalalalalalalala_

Hubert wonders if that is the man’s preference. A shame, but not a deal breaker for a chance to squeeze the gorgeous pecs threatening to escape from the bralette that does everything to emphasise the man’s drool-worthy cleavage and nothing to help Hubert keep his blood flow directed to his brain. Now he’s thinking of himself between them, fucking into the valley they make, a tongue darting out of that pretty red mouth to lick at his tip when Hubert’s thrusts allow him to reach.

The man pulls himself into a seated position on the pole, holding himself up by his thighs and Hubert understands how his computer must feel when he asks it to perform too many complicated Excel calculations at once. Everything in him freezes, his thoughts determined to etch this sight into his brain forever. An image of those thighs covered in bite marks and the deep purple bruises Hubert would suck into them floods his mind and he works to committing _that_ to memory as well.

_The only place you want to be is underneath my Christmas tree_

_The only place you want to be is underneath my Christmas tree_

The man dismounts from the pole, steps away with his hands still gripping it and slides down; one leg outstretched to end sitting on the floor, the other folded beneath him in a way that shows off all the thigh muscles Hubert finds himself so weak and ever so slightly breathless for. He imagines straddling one, rutting into it to chase his pleasure. He would slip a hand under the bralette to tease at a pert pink nipple, tracing irregular patterns into the raised flesh. Sometimes they would graze over an areola or a rapidly hardening nipple, other times they would come close to where the man demands he put them with needy whines as he gets more and more desperate for Hubert to touch him.

…Or maybe it wouldn’t be as hot and heavy as Hubert’s imagining it in his head. The man’s dance moves are measured and deliberate, timed perfectly to the music as he grips the pole and kicks a leg up in a move that leaves him inverted, supporting himself with his ankles and thighs on the pole and showing Hubert _exactly_ how far his back can arch. Hubert misses the next section of the dance to visions of the man straddling him, rolling his hips slowly back and forth as he rides Hubert. He’d grip the dancer’s hips firmly to pull him deeper, but not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to make sure he could envelop every inch of his length in the man’s velvet heat.

Some time later — Hubert can’t be sure how long — he is treated to a front row view of the bulge barely contained by the silken fabric of his lingerie. The man’s hands are now firmly on the floor, facing forwards with one foot hooked on the pole to support himself as he extends the other, toes pointed to make his calf rock solid. Hubert thinks of those toes curling into his black sheets in the throes of pleasure with his hand fisted in the molten lava of the man’s hair fanning out beneath him.

Now the dancer is in side splits on the floor, his chest against the stage floor. He holds the position, humping the floor to a chorus of whoops from the crowd with a sinful smirk.

The duality of this man. Debauched one second, the poster boy for innocence the next.

His elbows are on the floor, forearms pushing together the pecs Hubert would do almost anything to lick to really make his cleavage pop. He rests his head on the bridge created by his hands with an angelic look on his face. His knees are together behind him, feet kicking in the air like some teenager at a sleepover in one of the noughties teenage chick flicks he’d tortured himself with so he didn’t disappoint his lady during film night with the girls. Hubert desperately tries to focus again on the music rather than the image in his head of the man hog tied in front of him. It turns out to be a deadly mistake.

_Light you up put you on top let’s falalalalalalalala_

He’s back on his feet now, dancing around the pole. At these lyrics, the man makes eye contact with Hubert and _winks._ Hubert doesn’t need a mirror or Dorothea to know his face is a deeper shade than the red of the dancer’s outfit. Goddess, did he mean…?

No, it’s clearly just a part of the act. But the wink put a fox in the hen house of his brain, thoughts racing at the idea of this Adonis wanting to be topped by _him._ It sends a bolt straight down his spine to his cock, already half hard in his stupid tailored fit slacks. The tight confines of his trousers add to the discomfort. Hubert shifts in his seat, trying to conceal his growing erection by crossing his legs. It only succeeds in adding some friction against his length as he moves. Hubert brings a hand to his face to suppress a whine or grunt — he isn’t sure which would escape his lips. He feels like he might explode if he doesn’t touch himself.

_Yes, Everybody knows_

_We will take off our clothes_

The man brings his arms above his head and rolls his upper body, abs flexing. He spins around the pole, stopping to hook a knee around it and extend out to the side, almost as if he was reaching for Hubert. Shaking his head, Hubert tries to banish the thoughts _that_ generates.

He’s standing again now, arms high on the candy cane pole as he draws infinity symbols in the air with his hips. More gratuitous body rolls bring his hips closer and closer to the pole as he speeds up and spins around. With his hand cupping the pole behind his neck, back against it for support, he continues. Some beats he grinds against the pole, others he alternates between rolling his hips or his whole body. The hand supporting him on the pole leaves his other free to wander the planes of his chest and stomach, tracing the lines of muscle in places. His hand slips very low with one body roll, thumb hooking on the elastic of his panties to pull them down just a fraction. He bites his lip, eyes half lidded. It’s a deliberate tease, but it makes Hubert’s rapid heartbeat rush in his ears.

_Oh oh Christmas_

_My Christmas tree’s delicious_

The dancer’s hair is still somehow impeccable after all the inverts, rolling around on the floor and the impressive display he made of fucking the floor. But now his shoulders are against it instead, hips canting into the air, a hand grabbing his crotch to the lyrics. His other sneaks up to grope his chest and Hubert can’t help but wish it was his own hand on the supple flesh instead.

When he processes the lyrics — _delicious_ — and the way the dancer swipes his tongue over his bottom lip seductively Hubert grits his teeth. That tongue on his cock, lapping precum from the tip, teasing his frenulum as he swallows it down, mind empty of everything but the feel of the man’s hot, wet mouth around his cock. He’d listen to Hubert’s body and respond attentively to what he likes, repeating what drew out heavier breaths and animalistic groans.

Or — if _he_ is supposed to be so delicious, Hubert could have the redhead sit on his face for better access. He could run his hands up from knees to crotch, press bruises into the soft flesh of his inner thighs, leave them with crescent moon indents from his fingernails. Listen for the gasps as his tongue circles the ring of muscle, the keening when he pushes his tongue in, moans when he let his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. From that position, Hubert would be able to smell the sweet, sharp tang of the dancer’s sweat after a hard work out pleasing Hubert, mixed with the musk of his skin to leave Hubert dizzy. He’d easily be able to lap at any pooling sweat, the salty taste would linger on his tongue. The only sounds filling the room would be the dancer’s panting and the slick, wet noises of Hubert bringing him to a screaming orgasm from just his tongue. Or maybe he’d just do it to prepare the man before putting him on his back, adding some extra lube before folding him in half and pounding him into the mattress. He could bury his face in the redhead’s neck, lick off the sweat he brought to the man’s brow as he fucked him into a blissed out oblivion. Nibble on an earlobe, hearing the hitch in his breath at the sensation. Hmm, from that position he wouldn’t be able to watch the jiggle of the man’s chest as Hubert gave a particularly hard thrust. There are too many options. Hubert wants them all.

_The best time of the year_

Historically, Hubert would disagree with this statement. He wasn’t fond of the holiday, much to the disappointment of previous partners. If he could spend it with the dancer, though, Hubert would be inclined to agree. Three days of no obligations, three days to indulge in any position they could think of. He has keys to the office, it would be empty, no one would have to know — he could bend the man over his desk, fuck him against the shelves in the stationary cupboard, make some fun memories in the board room to help his boredom during a particularly dull meeting in the future…that river of sunset orange hair tickling his legs, lips kiss swollen and moist from a sloppy make out session before they stretch around his shaft, pliant and willing, taking Hubert’s cock as he cants his hips into that mouth. Testing his flexibility in the shower, the water cascading in rivulets down the dancer’s back, swallowing the tears from overstimulation as he cries Hubert’s name, voice broken from 48 hours of screaming it.

He wonders if the man was strong enough to get out of Hubert pinning him. Contrary to Dorothea’s opinion, he does maintain his figure and is stronger than he looks. He finds it infinitely more fun when his playthings are able to at least try and get free from him crowding them against a wall before he ravages them.

As if to answer his question, the dancer climbs the pole in smooth, undulating movements to gain height. After a couple of steps up the pole he begins to spin, taking his legs off the pole to walk in slow, graceful steps, held up by upper body and core strength alone. He steps out of the aerial move on to the floor.

_Take off my stockings where?_

The man stops, bringing a hand to cover his mouth in an exaggerated gesture, his eyes wide as he inhales sharply, mouth open in a perfect ‘O’. He pretends to think about it and shakes his head, wagging a finger at the same time. Another part of the act, but the thought of him pleading with Hubert to keep the stockings on… _just_ the stockings…nearly draws a guttural noise from his throat. _Oh please Hubert, I want you to have me like this, all dressed up for you, only you…_

_I’m spreading Christmas cheer_

The dancer was lying with his back on the floor again, legs spread in a wide V in time to suggest that the space within his legs was the aforementioned Christmas cheer. Hubert could see him like that in the living room of his modern apartment, making them both merry. The lights from the artificial tree his lady had insisted he put up would paint the ecstasy on the man’s face in changing rainbow colours.

_Cherry Cherry Boom Boom_

He ends the performance with a sensual walk back to his discarded robe. Hubert is once again treated to the sight of the man bent over when he reaches to pick it up and throw it over his shoulder, slowly rising out of it with his back in a perfect curve, engaging all his core muscles to return to a standing position. He tosses his head to move the fringe out of where it’s fallen in front of his face, jiggles his ass with a smirk before strutting off the stage.

Hubert takes five deep breaths, trying to force his thoughts into something coherent and to make himself soft through sheer willpower. He is somewhat successful — the bulge is no longer so pronounced, and he is able to hide it behind the coat he tucks over his arm as he takes his leave.

“Forgive me, but I’m feeling unwell. I’m afraid I need to retire for the evening.” From the flash of concern over his lady’s face, Hubert knows he’s somehow managed to make it sound convincing.

“Of course, Hubert! Please, drive safe, and let me know when you are home.”

He manages a weak chuckle as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “That’s my line, my lady. Byleth, you’ll see to it they all make it home?”

The blue haired woman nods at him, face stoic as ever, and Hubert departs as swiftly as his long legs will allow him to. Near the exit, he spots a curtain with a security guard stationed outside.

Hubert could get past. He’s stealthy enough. Seek out the dancer with the body of a Greek god, gorgeous orange tresses and a presence that lights up the room as if with sunshine, but then what? What would he do? Ask the man on a date?

He probably got offers all the time. He’d say something about being flattered as he tried to let Hubert down gently with some excuse or another. No, best he left with the possibility of his fantasies coming true, rather than confirming what he knew anyway.

As long as it was unsaid, Hubert could continue to enjoy the scenarios he’d crafted in his head.

While he deliberates, he notices the dancer peek into view from behind the curtain. He’s donned light grey skinny jeans, black Doc Martins and a genuine smile that blinds. His laughter sounds angelic, something the man in front of him — who Dorothea would probably also accuse of being from the Victorian era based on his alabaster skin and the dark circles under his smoky eye makeup, regardless of his verdant hair that had to have come out of a bottle — said has him shaking all over. Victorian boy looks over at Hubert and the dancer follows his eyes to look directly at him. For a moment, Hubert forgets how to breathe as he feels the heat of those golden eyes. Having that smile directed at Hubert himself is too much and he turns away, missing how the man raises his hand to wave.

~~~

Safely back in his own bed, rid of the fabric confinement of his slacks, Hubert takes himself into his hand to the image of those eyes staring up at him from the dancer’s position on his knees. He would worship Hubert’s cock, sucking it like he needs it to breathe. One hand would cup his ass, slowly trailing between his cheeks to tease the sensitive nerve endings of his hole, then drag lower, applying extra pressure on the perineum before turning into a feather light touch over the seam of his balls. He could swirl his hands through the flowing molten river of the dancer’s sunset hair, pulling gently — or harder if he wanted it — with another cupping his face. Hubert would run a thumb over his cheek, praise him for being such a good boy, _so greedy for me_ (only you, the man would try to say with a mouth full of dick and voice hoarse from having his throat used).

The eagerness in the man’s eyes as he pleasures Hubert is intoxicating. He gives head like he was made to be on his knees, each movement as practiced as his dancing was. None of the grace is here now, but the genuine fun and enjoyment shines on his face and is apparent from the broken moans and whines he makes around Hubert’s length.

Hubert imagines the dancer’s hands all over him — replacing his own tight grip _(here, please, let me. Please),_ rolling his nipples to send shocks of heat down his spine, pinching at them, stroking up the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thighs in the most delightful tease, fingers in his mouth to slobber over. He’d get them nice and wet, then capture the man’s mouth in a kiss to steal the gasps and whines as the man worked to stretch himself, adding a second finger far too quickly in his desperation to climb on top of Hubert’s dick.

When he does, it’s an exquisite relief Hubert’s never felt before. He’s hit with it so suddenly it makes his head spin, blinking back the black spots in his vision. Hubert breathes deeply, focusing on how slowly the man lowers himself. It’s a laboured process _(fuck you’re so thick, you stretch me so well)_ and each time he slides further down, Hubert’s head swims and he gets light headed. Thighs grip his hips so tight Hubert’s convinced they’ll shatter from the pressure and he can’t bring himself to care. The dancer bottoms out with the sexiest scream/moan Hubert’s ever heard, back arced in a parabola created by the focus of Hubert’s length and the directrix of the headboard, his face screwed up in pleasure as he adjusts to the feeling ( _so full, goddess, fuck, I can’t, ah, I can’t, FUCK)._ He gets to experience those body rolls in person, each movement shifting the weight and depth of his shaft in that velvet prison he never wants to leave. Now, the vice grip is gone, replaced by trembles of exertion. Hubert helps the man fuck himself on Hubert’s cock, lifting him up and down, bringing his hips up to meet in a way that leaves the dancer’s mouth slack, drool escaping, his eyes long since unfocused and somewhere in the back of his head. His chest rises and falls rapidly from all the panting, occasionally stilling when he rewards Hubert’s efforts with a moan or a keening cry when Hubert’s length him in exactly the right place.

Hubert’s behind him now, ploughing him with speed. The slap of his hips against the dancer’s ass, beautifully decorated with bite marks, is barely audible over the screams from his partner. The muscles in the man’s forearms stand out with how tightly he grips the sheets, pushing back to take Hubert deeper, harder, more, _(more, please, oh, just there, ah ah ah, there please, harder, I’m so close…)_

Hubert’s own hand speeds up, feeling the pressure of release start to build in his gut, and the scene changes again. Their fingers entwined, Hubert frees one hand to stroke the dancer’s face. _You’re doing so well for me sunshine,_ Hubert purrs breathlessly in his ear, bringing the man’s other hand to stroke his flushed cock. He makes a pretty pout beneath Hubert — _(I want you, your hand feels so good, nothing compares to you, want you to unravel me, please, please)_ — that pushes out his bottom lip in a truly irresistible way. Hubert captures it in his teeth with a playful nip, then sucks it gently to soothe the pain. They’re kissing passionately, heated and slow. Tongues explore new secrets and Hubert can taste the saccharine candy cane the man beneath him had sucked so seductively to get them in this position, missionary, face to face with them taking their time, each drag of his cock or his tongue dripping heat into his gut, pushing more against the dam until it bursts.

Hubert falls forwards, catching himself on his elbows as the orgasm shakes through his body. He grinds into his partner through it, the final pumps sending the angel beneath him over the precipice too, painting his stomach, chest and chin in an impressive display of virility. Hubert stares down with reverence at the pleasure pain combination of his partner’s orgasm face, neck taut from how his shoulders arch off the bed as he shudders through the waves, looking completely fucked out. Hubert sneaks an arm under the man’s raised shoulders and, once he’s finished, rolls them over so his partner is cradled against his chest, spend now over both of them. They share soft, languid kisses until Hubert gently puts the dancer back on the bed and grabs a wet cloth and a towel to clean them both up.

Fuck. Hubert comes so hard he feels like he’s hit a brick wall. Habit ensures he captures his spend in his hand rather than letting it go everywhere as he convulses, every muscle tight. Once it subsides, he grabs a tissue from the side of his bed and cleans himself up, silently cursing himself for not trying to talk with the dancer earlier when he had the chance. He checks his phone to find a message from Byleth confirming everyone got home safe, and a bizarre drunken text with atrocious spelling from Dorothea that appears to say something about him eating snacks, coffee and you’re welcome. His frustration at himself for not being bolder in the club fights with the deep satisfaction and a weariness he feels to the bone, the post orgasm haze trying to drag him to sleep.

Goddess, what he’d do to make that last fantasy come true. To wake up with the dancer in his arms, to count the freckles he’s sure are hidden under the makeup the dancer wore, to brush that long hair in the morning, to lose himself in those honeyed eyes.

Hubert turns off his light and uncharacteristically falls into a deep sleep within seconds.

~~~

“If you like him, stop bothering me and go bother him,” Lin drawls, his voice full of sleep as always.

“But you saw him turn away just now.” Ferdinand sighs. The man was stunning and _of course_ that meant he entirely misread the situation during his performance as the dreamboat being interested in _him_ rather than just watching the dance.

Ugh, he was always such an idiot about affairs of the heart.

“Ferdinand, do something about it or find someone who cares,” Linhardt says around a yawn and walks off.

Ferdinand stands there, weighing up his options, before pulling on a t-shirt large enough to hang loose over his bralette to seek out the man with the menacing aura that almost distracted him enough to drop himself on the floor during an invert. He sighs deeply, pausing to brace himself against a wall as his knees go weak imagining those eyes focused solely on him, judging him, finding him wanting. Oh, the way that one visible eye pierces though his skin, filling him with an icy dread even as his heartbeat quickens at the thought, glowing embers of desire igniting deep within him. Those eyes, the colour of a snakes, laying him bare with just a look. Ferdinand squirms just thinking about it. Razor sharp cheekbones throwing the man’s face in high relief, especially from his vantage point trapped beneath the other man, staring up at him with his wrists pinned above his head. His tall, dark stranger would use one hand to hold Ferdinand in place, the other free to explore Ferdinand’s body, to take what he wanted, given overwhelmingly willingly even as Ferdinand finds himself overpowered. Hair blacker than night, hiding the jewel of his second eye behind a stylish fringe Ferdinand wants to reach out for, only to have his hand swatted away as the man crowds over him ominously, standing oppressively close, hot breath tickling Ferdinand’s ear as that deep, rich and husky voice —

Oh _no,_ he could _not_ go out there like this.

It takes Ferdinand the rest of the evening and no fewer than three “stress relief” sessions to calm down enough to be decent in public. He braves the club lounge where the patrons are, boldly striding forwards as he looks around for the Jareth to his Sarah. His Goblin King should be easy to spot in the crowd, standing head and shoulders above the other patrons, however Ferdinand cannot see him.

He spies the group his tall, dark stranger had been sat with, his spirits rising as he surveys the group to find the man…gone. He exhales, permitting himself to slouch his shoulders just this once as he deflates, crestfallen. His defeat is momentary before he devises a plan worthy of the dashing heroine he named himself for.

Correcting his posture, Ferdinand rolls his shoulders back and makes to approach the women when one of them stumbles towards him. She hooks an arm around his waist, attracting the attention of the security team. Ferdinand motions for them to stay, then turns his attention back to the brunette who smells of roses, cranberries and vodka.

She pushes a small black rectangle of card into his hand. Etched in grey are contact details.

“Ah, I must apologise if you have the wrong impression of me, but I shall have to decline. One with looks as divine as yours is surely to be swept up by someone deserving of your love but alas, I am not he!”

“Nonono, shhhh!” She slurs, leaning on him for support. “I stole it from Edie, you see.”

She looks at him expectantly, so Ferdinand just nods as if he does see, trying to catch the eye of one of the security staff.

“His nam…nnn…name is Mike Wazowski!” She hiccups. “No, but really, his name is Hubert, you know him, looks like the type to carry laudanum in his pocket. And. And, he likes coffee! You should call him,” she nods, poking him with a finger to reinforce her point. “He’s really very nice behind the Disney villain exterior—” she cuts off with a snort, blinking as her eyes go in and out of focus. “Okay, well maybe more like tolelerrerable. Tolerable. But still, call him honey, because you’ve both clearly got it bad. He likes coffee. You should go for coffee! Or coffee,” she says with a wink, then brings her hands in front of her in a prayer. “Please get _coffee_ with him. Rail the man and dislodge the stick from his arse. Or let him rail you I don’t know his preferences. Ta ra, darling!”

With a small wave of wiggled fingers, one of the most bizarre conversations he has ever had is over. Ferdinand looks down at the card in his hand and sure enough, it has the details for one Hubert von Vestra of Black Eagles Ltd. Ferdinand stares at the mobile number with a small smile and starts drafting the text he’ll send later in his head.

Fortune did favour the brave, after all.

~~~

In the morning, Hubert’s bed is empty and his muscles are sore. It’s 6:30am, he’s woken up before his alarms. Not unusual for him, but an annoyance at the weekends where his lady demands he gets at least 8 hours sleep at night. A waste, he has much better things to do, but anything for his lady.

 _After_ the first coffee of the day, that is.

Hubert stumbles through his morning routine on autopilot, donning clean silk boxers — black, of course — and turning on the coffee machine to heat up the water. Once it’s hot, he switches it on and brushes his own hair, feeling a tug in his heart at how short it is. And dark. He’d rather be brushing something longer, running his fingers through soft, bouncy waves the colour of scorched terracotta.

Did the dancer like coffee? Or was he one of those insufferable tea drinkers?

Or worse, was he a _herbal_ or _fruit_ tea drinker?

If that were true, the man might not quite be the perfection he remembers from the previous night. Recalling the night before turns out to be a mistake, Hubert is already at half mast. Coffee first. Then he could deal with this inconvenience before loading his work laptop to look at the quarterly revenue figures he’d left the previous night.

Sipping at his freshly brewed coffee, Hubert returns to his bedroom to fetch his phone. He goes to turn the alarms off but when the screen lights up, he sees three message notifications from an unknown number.

> Hello Hubert, I was given your card by Edie through a brunette acquaintance. I was most taken with you last night and //must confess my disappointment that we were not able to speak in person. I would very much like to rectify that over coffee, if you would //permit me a few hours of your time? For you, I am free all weekend. I eagerly await your response. Ferdinand.

Hubert grins into his mug, typing his response as he sits back down on the bed, his work forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment (I love feedback, including constructive!) and kudos etc.
> 
> If I missed any tags or CWs please shout at me on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Elasmosaurus11) and if you liked the promo post is [here.](https://twitter.com/Elasmosaurus11/status/1354226120258949121?s=20)


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